Beds of Amaranth
by Chatastic
Summary: Post 1989 POTO movie. A sequel or sorts. Or just the ravings of a cat's delusional mind.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N This is most certainly dedicated to honeybee, sparklyscorpion, or BEE! as I affectionately call her. She's prill to the nth degree. Much love and thanks to Gonodlier, aka Wee Boat, for her spectacular beta prowess. Loves to ma beta, my authoress, and ma Boat**!

_What is personal reinvention to one who is already damned?_

She had torn the prosthetic skin from him face. To add insult to a false injury, she had torn his music and attempted to dispose of it.

Didn't she know that the music was more than scratches of ink on a page? More that 0s and 1s on a computer? The music, _his _music, erupted from bowels of hell, from the soul he had sold. It was immortal.

He was immortal. If only to act as a siphon for those compositions which mankind should be blessed enough to hear.

It had taken a century, but Erik Destler had come to realize that he was nothing in the wake of his purpose. His body was the vehicle. _Don Juan Triumphant _was only the beginning. His Muse demanded so much more.

Christine had crumbled in the wake of his genius; she was, ultimately, unworthy. He'd become distracted by her body, her flesh…_who could blame him? _he reasoned feverishly. The conquest of flesh, in one form or another, preoccupied his waking thoughts to the point of distraction. He was tempted and weakened by the flesh that encased her glorious voice.

He would never make the same mistake again.

Erik felt a new work under the surface of his patchwork skin, pushing and pulling, ready to be born. And he needed to find a safe place to give this one life.

The body before him quivered, the lung puncture making a sucking noise as Erik bent down and lifted the blade to the young man's face.

"I should cut out your tongue so that your screams can be your own," he whispered, and went to work.

Three hours later, Erik stepped into the bus station and bought a ticket. Careful to keep his black wool scarf high about his freshly sewn face, he gave the woman two crisp one hundred dollar bills, so generously donated by his earlier kill. The iPod now safely tucked in his pocket had come from a man who carried a guitar case. Erik hoped that the poor fool's taste in music was worth his life.

_What was a life worth, if not the music?_

The close contact with people was going to be most irritating, but Erik had concluded that this would be the least offensive mode of travel. He could hide: he could tuck himself down into the seat and drift off to the music in his ears and in the dark folds of him mind. And should he have his hand forced, he could disembark and get away.

It would take days to reach his new home, but that would give him time to strategize his new life. _A new life_, he considered, _ or just another refrain attached to the same damned chorus? _

He slipped the earphones into his "ears," and closed his eyes.

The station in New Orleans was just outside the French Quarter; as Erik stepped off the reeking bus, his senses were further assaulted by a wall of humidity and the stench of urine. Muffling curses under breath, he clutched his violin case to his chest and searched for a bathroom to check his handiwork.

After checking the stalls for occupants, Erik set his violin on the grimy floor and gingerly lowered his covering.

The harsh, raw light deepened the gnarled red lines, and even Erik had to grimace. Without heavy stage makeup—or better still—the prosthetic faces he'd created in New York, his crafted face was unseemly. Erik's aesthetic sensibilities demanded a more perfect visage, and he would have to procure better materials.

He heard a moan from behind him, and turned to see a man crumpled in a far dark corner. Hiking the dark fabric up to his mouth again, he stepped forward to bend over the shuddering form.

"Did you see?" Erik hissed.

The man's eyes rolled back, and a trickle of vomit clung to his chin.

Erik turned on his heel, collected his case, and made his way out into the light.

The weather was still cold—it was January, after all—but the wetness of the air made the cold wrap around Erik's body and he shivered lightly. He lowered the brim of his fedora and kept his eyes low. Crossing the bustling Canal Boulevard, he watched people board and descend from green streetcars, their hands full of shopping bags and voices loud. He watched a crowd of particularly obnoxious creatures step off onto the thoroughfare and head north on one of the cross streets.

He'd follow them.

He'd kill at least one for money, skin, and a spot of fun.

The party moved north on a street called Rue Decatur. Erik grinned at the self-consciousness of the title. This was a city clinging wildly to its past.

_Perfect for a monster who cannot escape his._

Erik moved silently behind them, tipping his head up only to appreciate the soft gray light of the afternoon. He knew that he needed to find a place—a private space to compose and to collect his hides—but for the moment he was content to follow this group and enjoy the wind on his mottled face. They crossed the sidewalk and continued pressing forward, laughing and drinking from gaudy plastic cups.

_Intoxication would make this even easier_, he mused.

He stopped walking when they continued past the protective barrier of shop fronts to carouse past a large plaza of greenery encased within an iron fence. He did not want to put himself out in the open, so public and vulnerable. He'd hoped to cling for a while to the uneven shadows created by the canopies and overhangs. Erik tucked himself close to the wall in between a souvenir shop and a restaurant and took a deep breath.

His silence was defeated by the blast of a pipe organ.

He was further shocked to hear a song being rendered from the instrument. Emerging reluctantly from his darkened spot, he followed the racket, sidestepping people as they hurried past him. The farther he strode, the closer the retched notes seemed, until he found himself standing at the foot of a large levee embankment. Climbing the grassy hill, he stood transfixed at the top.

The Mississippi River was wide—wider than any river he could ever remember seeing. Deep brown and moving quickly, he could make out fierce and violent currents farther out in the flow of water. The riverboat _Natchez_ had finally finished its trilling tune, and was departing the dock. Erik's duster whipped about him; the wind off the river was strong.

Violence, depravity, wonder.

He was right to have chosen this city. He could hide here; he could build a new life here, and his music could thrive in the dank, sweaty air with glorious results. This was indeed a City of the Dead.

And he was Death. His poetry would meld nicely with the decaying earth.

Setting his violin case down, he reverently unlatched it and withdrew the instrument. His pet, this violin—so perfect and yielding to his gentle touch.

Tucking it under his chin, Erik began to pull and tease his music from the violin, consecrating his homecoming to this strangely welcoming place.

People strolling along the walkway stopped at his song. Several stepped up to the open case and tossed in bills and coins. He offered a soft nod, never making eye contact. Only in these moments of peace, when the music spoke for him, did Erik forget any sense of bloodlust or frenzy. These were the only moments of human interaction that made sense to him. For a second, he could speak to another soul, and have that soul understand.

And after a few hours, he'd possibly have enough money for a bit a food and some wine.

For now, however, Erik Destler felt some semblance of contentment. Tomorrow, he would begin bringing the world to its knees.

Or, at least, the City that Care Forgot.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Gondolier is a fantastic writer, and a superb beta. My incredible thanks! I loff you like whoa! _

_All things are taken from us, and become_

_Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past._

_Let us alone. What pleasure can we have_

_To war with evil?_

_The Lotos-Eaters _by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

New Orleans was a city in suspended animation. Built on quicksand and slush, it was in constant motion, trying to build a solid foundation where none was possible. Nothing stayed buried; nothing ever could.

Erik could not go underground, for there was no underground to which he could retreat. He longed for the sanctuary of the earth, a place fitting his manner of being and his work-both bloody and musical. As the light of day faded into a buzzing night of lights and even more noise, he released his violin from under his chin and crouched over the case.

About forty dollars. A rather nice taking for only a few hours of playing. _This bodes well for the immediate future_, he thought; this was easier, if only marginally more satisfying, than killing to replenish his funds. Touching a finger to his cheek, he conceded that a killing would have to happen soon, but not tonight.

Tonight was for his exploratory pleasure. He was loath to be forced into finding a suitable space to carve and work the supple skin around his face. The flesh on his visage was only five days old; surely he could milk a another day out of it. The cold weather was an advantage: no one questioned a man raising a scarf around his face, tipping the brim of his hat low, avoiding the gazes of others.

Actually, in the half-day he'd been in this city, he was amazed at how little curiosity his unholy figure inspired.

Pocketing the money and picking up his case, Erik made his way down the wooden stairs that deposited revelers in the basin of the Vieux Carré. Horse-drawn carriages plodded down Rue Decatur as Erik set his sights on the green plaza in front of him. During the day, such things were to be avoided. Under cover of night, he could indulge in a bit of strolling.

_Jackson Square_, he murmured on his breath, and slipped through the arch to find himself in a garden park. He scanned the perimeters, noting the many vagrants holed up in the corners and on benches, and pushed the idea from his mind. _This would not do for a residence. _Wandering forward, he saw the great iron statue of Andrew Jackson, and briefly mused on the significance of the man to this city.

_They do like heroes, don't they? And the thrill of battle._

The brightly-lit St. Louis Cathedral loomed just beyond the statue. Erik felt a momentary pinch in his chest: Beauty never failed to move him, and this was an elegant if simple construction. Crossing through the Square, he found himself staring up at the Cathedral, feeling an unusual sense of smallness as he had to tip his head back to take it in.

He was used to enormous buildings, having lived the last several decades in New York. He'd seen more ornate structures in Europe for damn sure. This consecrated space was unremarkable in comparison- and yet, it was _earnest_. Erik had never been attracted to such a weak concept, but he enjoyed looking at this little Cathedral, cast in the middle of drunken party-goers and tarot-card readers. It seemed… steadfast, perhaps, and Erik knew something about fortitude under duress.

Even if this place belonged to God, he could still appreciate it. "Perhaps I'll dare to fill you with my music," he said aloud, hoping an avenging angel might hear. "And then we might see your true beauty."

Someone stumbled behind him, and he turned around.

A woman struggled to keep her much larger companion upright as they tripped forwarded. "Come on, the hotel's just a little farther," she moaned. "And if you fucking throw up on me, I will leave your ass here and just see what happens to you then."

Erik smirked, and watched them bumble along. He walked the length of the Cathedral to a sidewalk, and continued his meandering. The next street he encountered was Rue Royale, a decidedly calm thoroughfare with only a handful of people who seemed content to peer into windows and study the contents soberly. On the corner, guitar player strummed a few chords, and looked up hopefully as people passed.

One more block took him to the center of the racket: Rue Bourbon. Erik had heard of this place, and it was living up to its filthy reputation. The street, closed off to vehicular traffic, was packed with bodies writhing and carousing. The smell of urine was everywhere, such a contrast to the peace of Rue Royale.

Part of his nature was disgusted. Part saw great potential.

A quick stroll informed him of the layout: Alcohol dispensers, nightclubs, music venues (that was intriguing) and strip clubs to appeal to any deviance desired. In New York, he'd been able to seduce women more easily, not having to simply rely on his voice or hide in the shadows. His face was no obstacle.

Here, he would have to pay again. But there seemed to be no shortage of bodies for sale, to look at and then to have, he knew for certain. As he gazed at the girls on the steps in front of their clubs, he felt a race a heat down to his groin. It had been too long.

How nice it would be to have a woman near him, beneath him, and accepting his body. Opening herself up to his passion. And this time, her name needn't be Christine.

He's bend the body forward, quickly rip the underwear off just to give her the proper amount of fear, and then he'd stroke her into readiness. He remembered the feel of a woman slick against his fingers, gasping and encouraging him on even through the quivering voice. The fear intensified his pleasure immensely, knowing that he held her life and her pleasure in his hands. He would have her face away from him, so that he could watch her back, hear her moans and imagine himself anywhere he wished to be. Behind Christine—that idea used to thrill him into orgasm. Now he was free to lose himself into a warm body and fantasize on a new dream.

Not tonight, of course. He had to settle himself here. Find his way before he could find a good fuck.

He wrapped his duster around him and kept walking.

St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 was at the west end of the French Quarter, on the very edge of the mania. He crossed North Rampart and stood in front of the whitewashed wall. Erik found a dark corner in the rear of the plot and climbed over the wall, cautiously balancing the violin case as he did so.

Harming his violin would be like castrating himself.

The large crypts and tombs charmed Erik; this was indeed a City of the Dead. He meandered down the walkways, reading the French and Spanish names carved into the stone homes. These were the burial places of the cities' founding families, the priests who had come to minister, those who had fallen to violence and plagues of yellow fever. The bodies buried in the 1700s were prone to rise from the ground, not from any devilish intent, but from the high water table beneath the city. Or at least, that's what people believed. So they constructed grand mansions to death, glorious houses for their families to still hold a semblance of "court."

Erik felt an unfamiliar contentedness, and sat down near a large white structure marked on every side with red Xs. He unlocked the case and retrieved his violin. A mournful song, full with the contrasting ease of his heart, would feel right tonight. Just as he settled down comfortably and raised the instrument, he heard a whining voice penetrate the stillness.

"And here we have St. Louis Number 1, the oldest cemetery in the city. Behold, _feel_ the ghosts around you!"

Erik frowned as he stood and moved behind the sidewall of the tomb.

"Yes, the dead may rise tonight!"

Erik peered around the edge to glimpse a man in a hooded cloak, his face painted white with dark circles colored under his eyes. This man's party was moving closer!

"This is the tomb of Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo priestess-"

A small voice behind the costumed man whimpered, "Did she worship Satan?"

Before the he could answer, Erik touched the bow to the violin and drew out a moaning sound.

"What the hell is that?" cried someone from the group.

Erik smiled, and played the note again, stretching it out into oblivion.

"Oh dear god it's the devil himself!"

"Jesus Christ, I got my money's worth…"

A strain or two of Gounod's _Faust_ flew from his instrument.

The crowd took off scampering back through the gates.

Erik stepped from out of the shadows to see the cloaked boy quaking.

"So," he said softly, "this _Marie Laveau_. You purport her to be a soul given to Satan?"

The smell of urine filled the air. The boy could not move even to cover his stained jeans.

"And you did not think that the devil would guard his servant's resting place?"

Tripping on his own feet, the boy ran as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him.

Erik Destler smiled and leaned against on the whitewashed crypt. Tonight, he had found a home. Tomorrow, he would find a house.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N Most importantly, thank you very very much to Wee Boat for her mahvelous beta-ing!_

_This was supposed to be a one-shot, but Mr. Destler seems to have taken up residence in ma poor leetle mind… so I see this going on for a bit. He has to wreak some crazy in my favorite city!_

"_BoA" is based on the 1989 POTO movie (which was an extreme departure from the original Leroux text), and I've taken some liberties in creating this Erik in order to make him my own. That being said, he's still a big ole murdering dude, so please be advised that the blood will flow._

_Just once more- this is not ALW!Phantom- and I am not planning to hold back on the goods. If you aren't hip to violence and sexual situations… go read Buds. Very non-threatening!_

_All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave_

_In silence; ripen, fall, and cease:_

_Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease._

_The Lotos-Eaters _by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Even the afternoon rain couldn't keep the streets of the French Quarter from pulsing with patrons. Several of the musicians who had been playing on the street corners had halted and retreated to find refreshment. Erik kept playing, unwilling to abandon his little square.

He lifted his eyes to regard a man in a tight yellow dress nursing a daiquiri. This person had been watching him for thirty minutes, or so Erik estimated, and had not moved from his spot under the overhang of the "Blue Orchid" transsexual club. Lowering his gaze, Erik continued to play sections from one of his original compositions.

He paused his playing to bend down and scoop a few bills out of the case. A little money on the velvet encouraged passersby to give, too much discouraged. Erik wondered if he would do better nearer Jackson Square, where the artists gathered and other performers waited their turn to thrill the crowds of pedestrians. That was too open an environment, though. He'd wait until the evening before considering a move.

Earlier that day, Erik had trolled the Quarter, looking for suitable accommodations. He couldn't afford a hotel room; less because of the cost and more because of the security. He needed privacy, and he needed anonymity. Though he liked the look of the Royal Orleans and the Monteleone to be sure, neither would suffice. His comfort had to be earned in his own way. And perhaps, that would make success here all the more sweet.

The signs for rent and sale of condominiums dangled tantalizingly from the overhead balconies. Erik eyed each with longing, but the domiciles on the major thoroughfares were too conspicuous for his needs.

He would have preferred something on Rue Royale, simply to be away from the din of Bourbon Street and also to relish the easier pace; elegant, quiet, full of art and antiques calling him back to a time well before his encounter with the Devil.

_The Devil_, he considered. _Such a rather common and diluted name for that Being._

Walking towards the River on St. Phillip, he paused as he saw a woman stepping up to an iron gate, above which one of those taunting signs hung. She stopped to lower her shopping bags and adjust her purse. Erik quickened his pace and paused behind her to unceremoniously spill the contents of his grocery bag containing the items he'd need for work tonight: a needle and thread, a small pair of scissors, some antiseptic wash, gauze, a few plastic containers, aspirin, garbage bags, matches and a box of candles.

"Oh, my God! Can I help you?" the young woman said, bending down to help him gather his things.

"No, no… thank you so much. I am only clumsy," murmured Erik, slowing picking up the box of gauze and the spool of thread.

"That's okay. These sidewalks are so uneven!" she said gamely, and turned to punch in the code.

_#59221_

Erik closed his eyes, and repeated the numbers in his mind over and over again as he strode past the woman, down towards a tiny diner where he could write the code on a napkin and grab a bite to eat.

As the day wore on tediously into night, Erik packed up his few belonging and walked down Bourbon, back towards the condominium on St. Phillip. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, and depressed the code into the gate. Once inside, he found himself in the middle of a tropical courtyard. Banana trees were planted in the four corners, and large-leaved plants edged the stone walkways. A bubbling fountain formed the centerpiece, and three sets of iron tables and chairs were positioned for light conversation or outdoor dining in more tolerable weather.

Erik kept close to the darkest corner, noticing only one lighted window among the many. His eyes fell upon a lock box on one of the lower doors, and he smiled to himself. Scaling the lattice underneath the balcony wasn't difficult. Breaking into the French doors was more an inconvenience that anything else. Once inside, he smelled a pungent scent of cinnamon air freshener and the distinct aroma of abandonment. This was a fragrance he knew well.

The condominium was bare—which was to be expected—but considerably spacious. Hardwood floors lay beneath nine-foot ceilings. Two balconies: one courtyard, one street side. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, but it was a roomy one with a claw-foot bathtub and a pleasing expanse of bare tile.

_This will do nicely_, he thought with a smile playing on his cracking lips.

He unwrapped the candles and set them about. Arranging the needles, gauze and materials on the sink counter top, he nodded with pleasure. A certain amount of the provincial made him feel reverential.

Erik crept out of the condo the very way he'd snuck in, and went hunting for his next creature comfort.

Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop was a frail-looking construction at the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip. Built in the 1700s, it was one of the few remaining original French structures, having survived the many fires that both destroyed and purified the city over the centuries.

Erik had noticed this hovel before on his wanderings, and tonight he felt compelled to enter and see the interior for himself. _Dark, very dark_, he noted with approval. Small candles illuminated individual tables, and aside from the garish neon beer signs, the shop radiated age and authority.

Shuffling himself to a side table, he set his violin case on the seat next to him and adjusted his scarf. His face was rapidly disintegrating, and he was not interesting in alarming patrons. A girl frittered towards him and reached for the candle at his table. He made to lash out to her wrist without conscious thought, but drew back as soon as he saw her nimble fingers snatch the glass and flick a lighter.

"Welcome to Lafitte's. What can I get you?" She was a wisp of girl dressed in all black with her red-streaked hair tied up in a messy bun.

"Do you have wine?"

"Sure! You want to see a wine list?"

"No… do you have a house wine?" he said softly, embarrassed. He hadn't been forced to imbibe cheap wine in a long time. Now he had to be practical. This girl was so lovely, however; he longed to keep her hovering over him.

"We sure do. We've got a nice red. It's $3.50 a glass. I'll bring you some water too." She looked pointedly at the scarf around his face, and lowered her gaze.

"Please excuse my covering. I have a terrible cold, and you are far too lovely to contaminate."

With that, she smiled shyly. "I'm sorry you feel poorly. I'll get your wine and some water right now."

Erik looked down at the table, and saw a piece of black paper. Turning it over, he read with amusement: "Vampire and Ghost Tours! See the Haunts of the Vieux Carre! Tour the Cemeteries and Come Face to Face with Death!"

His hearty laugh was interrupted by the tinkling of piano keys. He hadn't even noticed the baby grand in the corner before him. A voice intoned into the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It's a pleasure to be here tonight, even though the weather seems to be at odds with our enjoyment…"

Twittering laugher followed as nodding heads agreed with him.

"My name is Vincent Mondelli-"

"Vincent! We love you!" hollered a patron from the back.

The man at the piano smiled. "I love you too, darlin'! Endearments now out of the way, to those new to Jean Lafitte's, welcome. We're so glad you're here. As always, if you have a request, please jot it down on a napkin and send it on up here. Cross it with a George Washington, and I'll play it with gusto. Pass over an Andrew Jackson and I'll play for you in your home!"

A woman whistled from behind Erik.

"You, my dear, are cut off!" Vincent smiled, and played a bit of a Broadway tune. "Should I start off with the favorites, just to get them out of the way?"

"Oh, play 'Piano Man' and deal with it, Vince!"

Vincent smiled, and played a snippet of the song. "You already know I'm your Piano Man! And this microphone does not smell like a beer!"

He paused as they laughed.

"It smells like bourbon!"

The mirth elevated.

The girl returned to Erik's table with a glass of wine and a plastic cup of water.

"Can I get you anything else?

"No, thank you." He tuned his head, lowered the scarf to take a sip of wine and covered a grimace. "This pianist is popular, I gather, Miss….?"

She blushed. "Carrie. Yeah, Vince is our most popular player. Just wait—the bar will get packed by about ten or so. He's so good with the social, you know?"

"That, and he is handsome, is he not?"

Carrie smiled softly. "I guess that's part of it. You know," she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "he was a student at NOCCA. Really promising."

Erik shifted his scarf. "NOCCA?"

"New Orleans Center for the Creative Arts, sorry," she said. "The Arts Magnet school here?"

"Ah. And why is he playing drivel for the drunks in a bar if he was so promising?"

Carrie frowned and stiffened. "It's hard, you know, making a living in this city. Vince tried his luck in Chicago, then New York. But he's got family here, and I guess he's got to eat. He gets a lot of tips."

Erik nodded. "One must damn near sell their soul for a profitable career in the arts."

The soft smile returned, and Erik warmed again. "Sad, but true." She gestured to her apron. "I wish everyday I was Andy Warhol or something."

"Perhaps the gods will find you and bless you with good fortune. Or some kind of fortune."

"Maybe, maybe. But I'm scared. I think that woman," she said, gesturing to a figure seated at an adjacent table, scribbling on a notepad, "is a talent scout or something."

"And this troubles you?"

"Well, yeah. She's been in here off and on for a week, taking notes and talking to the piano players. Someone said she's here looking for people to play at a new club. And if Vince leaves…I'd just…" Her voice trailed off.

A woman passed them to put a napkin on the piano and a few bills in the empty brandy snifter.

"Ah, yes. 'Only Living Boy in New York.' Now, ladies and gents, we aren't in New York, but this one is a classic," said Vince as he launched into the song. He played with ease that left Erik feeling both enraged at his complacency and jealous of his gentle contentment.

The woman in the corner continued to scratch out something on her tablet.

His wine finished, Erik called for the bill. Carrie returned with the check, and looked down at his violin case.

"Are you a musician?"

"I am."

"Do you play around here?"

"Sometimes on Bourbon."

She laid the check down in front of him. "Well, maybe I'll see you around. Drop a tip off to you, huh?" She turned and headed for another table.

Erik glanced at the bill. She'd only charged him for a Coke. He left her ten dollars. _Her flesh looks so soft._

Leaving the bar, Erik stopped at the street and was immediately offended by the sound of heaving. He peered around the corner to see a man leaning heavily on the brick wall, choking and struggling to undo his fly.

Erik could smell the sickness and fear on the boy before him. He tucked the violin under his arm and walked slowly over to the retching figure.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ…"

Erik chuckled. "I can't save you, but can I help you?"

The boy looked up at him, vomit streaming down his Sigma Chi sweatshirt. "I gotta go… I'm gonna get sick again… my brothers left me." His eyes were unfocused. Erik wondered if he hadn't ingested more than just alcohol.

"Left you alone in this condition? That's not the traditional meaning of fraternity, is it now?"

Another heaving retch cut off any response the boy might have offered.

Erik watched him carefully. His jeans hung off his spindly hips; this was just a child. Well, certainly a child to him, ageless creature that he was. The neck of the sweatshirt was wide around his wiry neck. His hair was mussed and his face pale.

But the skin. The skin of his face was perfectly smooth. A shock, to be sure, for such a young man. Not a trace of a blemish or scar, at least to Erik's prying eyes.

"You should not stay here."

"Huh?" came the weary voice.

"You will be picked up for public intoxication, or worse, if you fail to zip up your pants."

"I gotta find my brothers."

"You should at least come with me and clean yourself up. Surely, your brothers would be disappointed in your current state. Why, you've sullied the Greek letters on your sweatshirt. That might earn you a bit of wrath, don't you think?"

"But I don't…" he dry heaved and leaned again on the brick. "I don't know you."

"I live not too far from here. And I've been in your position before. I know what drink can do to a young man unaccustomed to the virulent poison."

"So I could piss and clean up at your place? You wouldn't mind?"

"I would not."

Erik put an arm around the boy and led him down St. Phillip. His stumbling steps were merely a nuisance. He was only one of many intoxicants bumbling off of Bourbon Street, even at this early hour. Erik led him towards the iron gate, and punched in the code to admit entry. Shuffling the boy inside, he walked him towards the trellis and bid him sit. He sat his violin case against the locked door of the condo.

"I've managed to lock myself out of my home. Wait here, and be quiet, lest you wake my neighbors and they call the police. I shall open the door and come back for you. Do be respectful and vomit into the garden, rather than on the stone?"

He turned to the trellis, and scaled it quietly. Once inside, Erik found the back door, and using a knife and a pin, unlocked it. Walking back into the courtyard, he passed the drunken youth to retrieve his violin, then scooped the boy up in his arms.

"Let's see what we can do with you, shall we?"

Erik took him around to the opened door, and walked him gingerly up the stairs to the bathroom. "You must forgive me. I've only just moved in, and I have no electricity. But I do have water, so you may use the toilet and wash up."

The boy nodded dumbly, and fell to the cold tile as Erik reached for the matches and lit the votive candles. He stepped aside to set his violin case down. He clicked it open, and reached into the top to retrieve his knife.

A thin blade, much like Joseph Lister would have used. Erik palmed it and walked back into the bathroom. The boy slumped next to the toilet, crying softly. "I shouldn't have had that Hand Grenade…"

"You took some kind of drug too, didn't you?"

"Uh huh. X, I think. I was trying to get this girl to let me fuck her, and she gave me this pill…"

"Yes."

"I'm Charlie. My name is Charlie."

"My name is Erik."

"Can you take me back to campus?"

"I don't think you will be in any condition to go back to campus anytime soon."

Erik knelt beside him and lifted his sweatshirt. The boy fought back. "I don't wanna…"

"I know. I just want to make you more comfortable. And I want to see your skin."

Sliding the clothing off, Erik marveled at the soft, virginal skin. He peeled his gloves off and let a hand stray affectionately over the boy's ribs.

"What are you doing…"

"I'm appreciating you."

The knife slipped through Charlie's ribs into his lung with ease. Erik gripped the boy's neck and held him still. Not moving the knife, not caring for the boy's cries, he heaved the body into the bathtub and considered the blood as it flowed. The inevitable sucking noise followed.

Without hesitation, Erik took the knife to the tender skin of the throat and pulled away sharply. The carotid artery pumped the life out of the boy with the same energy Erik imagined the youth might have had pumping into that sweet girl he fantasized earlier that evening.

Before the blood soaked the jeans, Erik fished the boy's wallet from his back pocket. He'd regard the contents later. Right now, he wanted to focus on Death, and give it proper respect.

Moving his knife to the tender flesh on Charlie's face, Erik carved a symphony around the skull, removing the flesh gently. The hide was deposited into one of his plastic containers filled with antiseptic solution.

Erik moved to the mirror and began to cut away at the decaying mess. He cleaned off the fresh flesh, and cut it purposefully to fit the contours of his face. With reverence, Erik began to sew the new flesh on, piecing it together as if creating a mosaic of life experience. This youthful skin exhilarated him; it infused him with a sense of hope. In the soft candlelight, his skillful stitching was almost invisible. Or perhaps he wished it to be so. In any case, his new face pleased him.

Taking one of the garbage bags, he slipped it around the body's bleeding head. A second was wrapped around the torso, rather carelessly. He put a third around the feet, and checked his pocket watch. 2 AM. Not very late at all, but he felt the need to get the body out of his home as soon as possible. Erik solemnly extinguished the candles

Hoisting the carcass on his shoulder, he trudged down the stairs to the back door. Reaching a hand to lower his fedora over his brow, Erik walked calmly out of the courtyard out to St. Phillip, and walked slightly north on the street. Seeing no one on the boulevard—they were all on Bourbon Street or too drunk to give a care—he deposited the body in a sitting position, leaving only the one garbage bag on his head. The blood on his torso was dry, and Erik carefully placed the left arm over the lap to cover the side puncture wound. The stream of blood would just have to be visible.

God help the person who lifted the bag.

Because this Devil wasn't very merciful.


	4. Chapter 4

****

A/N Wee Boat… Gondolier… authoress of the incredible Fraternité is a spanktacular beta. Thank you so much for all you do… beta-ing and just being rockin' awesome.

_We only toil, who are the first of things,_

_And make perpetual moan,_

_Still from one sorrow to another thrown;_

_The Lotos-Eaters, _Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It made the fourth page of the "New Orleans" section in the Times-Picayune three days later. "Body found in FQ, police at a loss." The short article gave little of the more salacious details, and the impression that the NOPD had no leads.

Around the Vieux Carré, the rumor mill was churning like a paddle wheel.

By early morning on the very day of the body's discovery, everyone knew about the killing, and more importantly, about the nature of the crime. It spread from the shopkeepers on Decatur over to the street washers on Bourbon. Hushed whispers elaborated on the slaying, most dancing around the truth, but everyone agreed that this was unlike anything that had happened in the French Quarter in almost a century.

That night, Erik had returned back the condominium just after he'd placed Charlie on the ground, and used the rest of the antiseptic to wash off the last of the blood. Finally, he stripped off his shirt and wiped the tub down. He checked to make sure he'd gotten the bit off the floor, and stuffed the ruined shirt in one of the garbage bags. Grabbing a candle, Erik walked softly into the main living area to sit and reflect.

_A satisfying kill. A new face. A beautiful place to stay. _He leaned his head back on the wall and breathed deeply. _I must find a way to settle myself so that my music can be given its proper due._

Erik wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his forehead on them. He was tired, but not able to rest properly. Letting his eyes close, he drifted off into a fitful and dreamless sleep.

Around 4 a.m., he lifted his head and noted the silence. His candle had burnt down to a puddle on the floor, and he used his knife to scrap up the pile of wax. These little reminders of his stay gave him a smug satisfaction: He was marking his territory. The details of securing this new home hovered on his consciousness, but he knew he would have time to think.

The Devil always granted such small mercies to him.

Making sure the French doors were unlatched, he crept down the stairs quietly and fled the courtyard. The body was still in its place, but it was now lying on the ground, facing the wall. The back pockets had been rifled through, Erik noticed, seeing the white liner pulled up through the pockets. He lowered his head, and made his way back to his corner on Bourbon Street.

Here and there, his sensitive hearing picked up the muted waves of hysteria as locals passed him by.

"…body on St. Peter…"

"….no, not a random mugging…"

"….well, shit like that happens here all the time…."

"…fucking gang shit, I swear…"

"….not like this…. Not since…"

Erik played a bit of Bach's _Concerto in D minor for Two Violins_ and enjoyed the tremulous waves of fear. He waited to see some tangible source of the neurosis he felt, but none came. Not that day, nor the following. No flyers, no warnings, nothing.

A city that lived and breathed on tourism could certainly not afford the scrutiny or the scandal of a murder and flaying.

On the third day, Erik happened to find that small story ran in the local paper as he breakfasted on scrambled eggs with Tabasco (as the old waitress suggested) and several cups of coffee with chicory. He'd found the diner at the north end of Bourbon, a quaint shop that catered to locals by not charging tourist inflation. He always chose the most secluded booth, and kept his fedora low over his face.

"Hon, you want more coffee?"

He placed a hand over his cup.

"No, thank you. This will suffice."

She paused, silent. Erik turned his head slightly towards her, but did not look up.

"You shouldn't read that while you eat, hon."

"I'll be fine. Thank you very much; the meal was lovely, as always. As was the service."

Walking back to his spot, Erik propped the case open and began to play again.

Around noon, that man who stood in front of the Blue Orchid every day appeared on schedule, this time nursing a dark drink from a plastic cup.

Erik had never made eye contact, but was skilled enough to track this person's movements. He knew how to see and not be seen. This person, however, seemed intent on _seeing him_ every day.

Today marked a change in their strange camaraderie.

Waiting for one of the tourist carriages to pass, the man tugged at his electric blue spandex dress and hobbled across the street awkwardly in platform shoes. He stepped up onto the banquet and looked shyly at Erik.

"I…I'm sorry."

Erik stopped playing and shifted his scarf again. The wind was biting; he wondered how the man could stand to be so flimsily covered. Judging by the size of the drink in his hand, Erik could surmise at least one tactic.

"You are sorry for what?" Erik responded slowly, a mixture of menace and anxiety in his voice.

The man put a hand to his wig and smoothed it repeatedly. "I watched you. Listened to you play for days now, and I've never paid you. I'm sorry. I was waiting for just a couple more tips, but it really was rude."

The man fished a few bills out of his top and bent over gracelessly to put them in the case.

"I've enjoyed you so much. It's… a blessing to hear."

"A blessing, is it?"

The man fluttered his eyes and turned his head. "I haven't heard music like that since I was a child. And here I am, rude again. I'm Henny."

Erik nodded quickly. "Henny."

"I dance over there, at the Blue Orchid. My stage name is Honey Angelle. But I'm Henny," he said.

"Yes, of course," said Erik. "Do you have a request, for your money?"

"Oh no. Well," Henny pursed his lips together. "You were playing the concerto the other day. I'd really like to hear that again."

"Really? You know the Bach concerto?"

Henny smiled broadly. "Yeah I do! I was a dancer. A classical one. When I was still costuming as a man. When I was Henry."

Erik put the violin back up to his chin, and his scarf slipped a little. Henny frowned.

"Ah, can I ask you a question?"

Erik lowered the instrument.

"You already did."

Henny dropped his head. "Yeah. Sorry. I should leave you alone to work." He began to walk away, then turned back. "I just have to. I'm sorry…"

Erik stiffened, adjusting the scarf nervously.

"Could you tell I was wearing make-up when I got up close to you?"

Erik was unbelievably speechless.

"Because I just got this new stuff… and I think it looks really good. It's made for burn victims and all, so I thought it would hide my old pockmarks, and the stubble I try to shave off, but you know how fast that grows back. So I heard about this Le Beau stuff, but Jesus, it's so expensive! But I thought, you know, what the fuck, and so I've been using it, but none of my regulars have said anything. And you're a performer, you know—well an artist, not a girl like me—so I know you'd tell me the truth."

Henny took a breath, put his hands on his hips and turned his face side to side.

"Seriously. What do you think? Worth the money?"

Erik appraised the situation. "Every penny."

Around 9:00 p.m., he saw her.

Melissa Touchet was bustling through the crowded street, dodging people with her notebook tucked firmly under her arm.

He watched her dart into a bar with a live band.

He gathered up his belongings and took off.

The first bar had a three-dollar cover charge. The second, five. The third, five again. Erik was spending a good deal of his money chasing after this woman. _For Carrie_, he mused. That wasn't entirely true, though her crumpled face last night when the woman reappeared at Jean Lafitte's was reason enough for him to be intrigued.

After listening to mediocre bands crank out one tired "hit" after another, Erik was almost ready to kill someone for a bit of pleasure.

The woman slinked out of the last bar, and kept her pace down Bourbon Street, closer to the residential section.

He crept along behind her. He'd watched her take notes all night with half-lidded eyes, begging to be stirred away. He tucked into in a small doorway and fished out his violin.

The sounds of the dirtiest street in America rang through the moonlit night. People filled the streets and the sidewalks. Some hung from the wrought-iron posts, some sat clumsily on the curbs.

He pulled the bow across the strings to elicit an aching moan.

She turned around quickly, scanning the crowd.

It's my imagination. God, there's so much music polluting the street, how could I possibly distinguish one instrument from another?

And yet, there it was again. Another long note. The sound of a violin, so chillingly precise it cut through the sounds of the karaoke machines and the people screaming.

Melissa stopped and closed her eyes.

Erik pulled his fedora lower and backed up against the brick wall.

She nervously adjusted her purse and her notebook, took a second survey of the crowd, and resumed a fast clip down the street.

Erik pursued her, case jostling under his arm, until he found another dark place between two shotgun houses. He played a bit of Tchaikovsky's _Serenade for Strings_, something he arranged for his solo violin on the spot—something he knew would tempt her with all its tender sentiment of youthful longing.

And stop she did.

He paused and launched into a composition of his own, so fiery and passionate that the woman's purse slid from her arm and she gasped involuntarily.

"Who are you?" she cried, suddenly realizing her self and collecting her things.

When no verbal answer came, only more music, she closed her eyes again and tried to stand very still.

"Who are you…." she whispered.

Again, her question was greeted with music.

"I'm looking for…someone. I'm looking for a musician. Please, I'd rather not stand in the street talking to myself."

Not that it's not common down here, but really, she thought grimly. 

"Please. I'd just like to talk with you."

Erik kept silent, waiting for her next move.

"Alright. Fine. I'm going now. If you want," she dug in her purse and walked to one of the stoops, "I'm leaving my card here. You can call me, and I can meet you somewhere to hear you play. More formally. And in person."

She stepped away and shivered. "It's beautiful. Powerful. And you know it."

Running to her car, Melissa didn't look back.

Erik thumbed the card in his hand and sounded her name aloud. "Melissa." Simple, graceful, charming... He'd have to consider his game with her more fully before he made the call. He didn't doubt his music's ability to captivate and ensnare; the Devil gave him his due. But she seemed less ensnared than entranced, as if she might possibly know something of music, or at least have a mind keen enough to process what he played for her.

These thoughts led him back the way he came, down to the seediest part of Bourbon Street.

Erik had played his music tonight, to somewhat satisfactory results, but not the kind he preferred. He would rather a woman fall before him, legs spread, begging for him to pay them the same the attention he paid his violin.

He found himself standing before a bar with a stupid name, but the subtitle "Bottomless Topless- Come Inside" promised so much more. Paying the cover, he touched a hand to his fedora as he entered. The club was not very crowded, considering the hour, and he placed himself in a corner, away from the stage but with a full view of the dancing "ladies."

He ordered two glasses of wine for his drink minimum, and hoped against hope that the wine wasn't vinegar. After thirty minutes of choking on his drinks and watching girls gyrate on the stage, he was frustrated and bored.

At last, a girl approached him.

"Want a lap dance?"

He nodded.

She moved the table before him slightly to the left, and parted her legs to more effectively sway her hips. Dipping forward to roll her body almost on his, she whispered, "I'm Yvette." She knelt on her left knee beside him, and sat on his thigh.

"How much do you want?"

"What are you offering?"

She smiled. "Twenty for a lap out here. Forty for a lap," she pointed to a curtain in the back of the club, "back there. For a hundred, you can do anything you want."

"Anything?"

She nodded and touched his inner thigh.

Standing, she took his hand and led him. Erik sat his violin down on the seat next to him. Yvette went to place it on the floor, but he grabbed her wrist.

"What the—"

"Have you looked at this floor? My violin does not belong in other people's filth!"

"Okay, okay," she said with feigned conciliation. Erik looked about the empty room.

"Not many takers tonight?"

"Don't you like the privacy?"

"Indeed, I do."

She slid onto his lap, her crotch making contact with his, grinding slowly. "If you just want a lap back here, I can do that. If you want more, you have to give me $50 upfront, okay? Just so that if you get into it, you don't forget."

He nodded. She reached for his hat, and he let her remove it. She tugged at his scarf, and he slid his hand up to her breast.

"Leave that, please. It will keep me from kissing you, which I know is against the 'rules,' as it were."

She smiled at him again. "Yes," she murmured, and gasped as he pulled her flimsy costume down. His fingers molded to her breast, centering to gently pinch her nipple.

Yvette began to grind her hips, rolling them in a figure eight, and Erik released her skin with a sigh.

She stood and straddled him again, her back to him. Again she ground artfully into his groin, and he lifted up to meet her body. She looked back and grinned at him.

"You like it this way? From behind?"

He grunted.

"You want more?"

He could barely gasp an affirmative.

She stood again, but before she could make her next choreographed move, he was on her, pushing her against the wall.

"You are so soft," he breathed. "You are so fragile. And I can have you now."

She let him lift her up and press her firmly, wrapping her legs around him. Taking his head, she pressed his face into her breasts.

Erik licked and suckled the soft, fragrant skin, reveling in its downy feel. Lifting his head, he caught the unmistakable look of fear.

His scarf had slipped. The red light of the back room was dim, but it must have illuminated his sutures, as Yvette's eyes began to tear.

He dropped her unceremoniously, gathered his things and marched out of the door. Her fear must have been so great, she never sent the bouncers after him.

In want… in great need, he thought of only one element that could possibly bring the satisfaction he so desperately desired. He walked with purpose now.

_Carrie._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N Wee Boat (also know as Gondolier) is one amazing writer and a fantastic beta. This would not work at all without her. Read Fraternié on FFN. You will be amazed, and worship like a mad person.**

_Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,_

_Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;_

_Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies._

_The Lotos-Eaters, _Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Carrie Fortier stepped outside Jean Lafitte's and lit her cigarette.

One of the other waitresses poked her head out of the open door. "Hey, Stephanie could take a break with you, if you want."

"No thanks," said Carrie, exhaling. "I'm okay. I'll stay right here on the side, I promise."

Ever since the body was found just up the street from the bar, the wait staff was vigilant about taking smoke breaks in twos. Carrie pretended to not be afraid, and gamely joked with Vincent that she'd mace the asshole before he ever got near her face.

She fingered the silver and black talisman that hung from a long chain around her neck. Her grandfather would have understood, yet mortally horrified at her contradictory habits…

_"And Marie Laveau would give the potions to the young men. To make the young ladies fall in love with them."_

_She sat on the floor next to the leg of her grandfather's worn La Z boy._

"_Did it work?"_

"_Of course."_

"_How?"_

_Her grandfather rubbed a calloused hand over his bald head._

"_It's better not to know."_

"_How is ignorance better than knowledge?"_

"_Darlin'," he sighed, "you don't want to go opening doors that you know don't how to close up again. Don't ever underestimate that magic. The young people, they don't believe in it, don't have respect for it. They crack jokes, buy trinkets and make a mockery of a belief system older than dirt."_

"_I'd never disrespect it._

_Papere met her gaze squarely. "Don't go playing at it, neither, you hear?"_

A cold wind broke her from her reverie.

Erik hadn't been to the bar in two days, and Carrie felt a slight twinge of concern. He seemed like someone destined to become a regular; plus, he was the best tipper Carrie had ever seen. And he repeatedly asked to be seated in her section.

True, it had only been a few nights in a row, but Carrie still anticipated seeing him last Friday night. When he didn't show up then and the next day either, she wondered if he, like so many drifters, had either moved on or been arrested for God knows what.

_People come and go_, she thought, _and he's probably just skipped out on the last Greyhound or something._

She wished she would have walked down Bourbon to hear him play. Like so many other opportunities, this one had been squandered and she felt stupid. Carrie doubted that Erik was a better musician than Vincent, but something about him impressed in her recognition of artistry.

_I'm seeing in him what I wish I could see in myself._

She took another drag off her cigarette and sighed.

"Good evening."

Carrie jumped and shoved the necklace down her shirt. "Holy shit, you scared me!"

Erik touched the tip of his fedora. "You seemed lost in thought. Forgive me."

Carrie laughed nervously. "Well, I guess everyone's a little jumpy. Where have you been?"

"Were you expecting me?" he asked with a sly grin, an expression she could actually see since he had lowered the scarf.

"No! I mean," stammered Carrie artlessly, "you just seemed to be part of the scene these days."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting tonight, then." In truth, Erik wasn't the least bit sorry. He'd been watching Carrie carefully since the disastrous incident at the strip club. He knew that she was about to get off of work, and had waited to approach her when she was available.

"Oh, it's okay. Actually, it's good to have someone I know to stand out here with me."

"And why is that?"

Carrie stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. "Does this bother you?"

Erik shook his head.

"Well, we're just keeping an eye out for each other, what with the murder and all."

"The murder?"

Carried gaped. "You don't know?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't," Erik admitted slyly. "I don't take the paper, and I certainly don't have a television."

A group of tourists decked out in beads and boas pranced in front of Carrie and Erik.

"Right. It happened just up the street," she said in a low voice. "It was really awful. The Times-Picayune reported it, but I've heard other details."

"Such as?"

"It was gruesome." Carrie scrunched her face. "Overkill, like they say on _CSI_. More than just a regular mugging and murder. I hate to say it was worse than a 'regular killing,' because that's so cruel, but this was anything but routine for around here."

Erik stepped closer to her. "And this frightens you."

Carrie nodded. "Kind of, yeah." She shuddered. "Yeah, it does. But sadly, it's good for business."

"What do you mean?"

"Straight mugging-shootings, tourist killings, that hurts. People get scared to come here and spend money. But this," she gestured with her hand up Rue St. Phillip, "this is exotic. This will draw a crowd, especially if it happens again. People are already talking. At least it was done with a knife and not an axe."

"What do you mean by that?"

Carrie's eyes widened in fear. "Nothing. Quarter locals have very active imaginations. And good memories."

"What are they saying?" Erik murmured. Carrie couldn't help but stare into his eyes.

"Things that shouldn't be spoken of. Trust me."

"Perhaps I will."

Carrie finished her cigarette and checked her watch. "I'm sorry. You came here to get a drink and I keep you standing outside in the cold. And I've got to go get some dinner. Have a good evening—"

"Surely you aren't going to walk to your car alone?" He knew she didn't have a car.

Carrie frowned. "No, I'm going over to a place near the Cathedral. No car. I'll be fine."

"Carrie, you are afraid to stand outside this bar by yourself," he suggested, watching her fidget nervously. "Surely you don't want to journey that far alone. Please, let me walk with you there."

"Oh no, I couldn't ask you to do that! Really, I'll be fine," she said.

"I truly must insist. It would be my pleasure," Erik purred.

"If you're sure it's not too much trouble, I'd really be grateful. Let me go grab my bag." Carrie ducked back into Jean Lafitte's. Erik watched her disappear behind the bar and then emerge with a backpack. Tossing it over her shoulder, she met him on the street.

"I guess it would be faster to go that way," she pointed down Rue St. Phillip, "but I don't want to walk by where the body was."

"But we would avoid the disgusting Bourbon Street crowds if we did that." Erik didn't wish to run into the dancer who was repulsed by his visage. Thanks to a tube of the make-up recommended by Henny, Erik felt comfortable baring his fresh flesh. But he didn't want Carrie to witness an awkward or ugly encounter. Not when she was so receptive to his conversation and his company.

_How receptive would she be tonight?_

They began to walk towards the river, Erik on Carrie's right, closer to the buildings. With the wind blocked, the chilly atmosphere was invigorating; Erik wrapped his duster around him and breathed in the crisp air. He heard Carrie gasp, and pinch the material of her shirt near her breastbone.

Shaking her head, she hissed. "My God."

"What is it?" Erik knew they stood right where he'd left the body.

"It's just… disturbing. Sorry, this way." She walked much faster than before. Several paces up, they turned onto Rue Royale, and zig-zagged their way to Chartres. Pausing for a second in the middle of the street, Carrie regarded the brightly illuminated Cathedral.

"Pretty, huh?"

Erik stood beside her and clutched his violin case. "Very."

"I've been going to Mass there ever since I was little. Even when my parents moved us out to Old Metairie, my mamma used to bring us back down here on Sundays."

Erik kept his gaze on the bright white profile of the majestic structure, but nodded softly. "I should like to see the interior."

"Well, I usually go to the 8 am Mass. We could meet sometime, if you didn't want to go alone."

"Perhaps."

Carrie shifted her backpack and walked to the corner.

"What the hell?" she cried. Erik turned to watch her put her hands on her hips.

"It's closed! Bastards!"

"Your restaurant?"

The Napoleon House was indeed closed for the week. Carrie huffed and pouted. "I swear! This place is the best. Most perfect muffalettasever."

"Excuse me?"

"Muffalettas. Italian sandwich. Ideally served with a tall Abita beer, preferably on draft." Carrie stamped her foot. "Well, now I've really wasted your time."

"Not at all. I've enjoyed your company." He stood beside her and read over the menu. "Where Napoleon was to be rescued from exile?"

"Yep. Jean Lafitte and the Governor hatched the plot. It never came to fruition. But the place is gorgeous. And closed. Dammit."

"What shall we do now?"

Carrie sighed. "I'll just grab a cheap beer off of Bourbon: Liquid dinner is fine with me. I really appreciate you taking the time to walk me here. And I'm—"

"Please, do not apologize again. Let me ease your disappointment."

Erik knelt and unlatched his violin case. In the darkness of the overhang, Carrie could only barely make out his movements as he tested the bow against the strings. He spoke so softly she could barely hear him.

"This is one of my own compositions."

Carrie felt the sound as he played, feeling every long note stretch in her chest, causing her to tremble slightly as he moved from phrase to phrase. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wrought iron post. She felt a growing tightness in her belly as she listened to the seductive music, and she let her head fall back, the tightness melted into a hot fire that spread down her legs.

Erik kept playing, watching her knees start to bend. Her breathing quickened, and he slowed down the tempo of the piece, lulling her away from the frantic sensation into a hypnotic repose.

He didn't want to pull her into a physical release. Not with the music. The devil's music would surely work upon her body in a most delicious manner; it already was.

He wanted to sit on the sill of the Napoleon House's window, and pull Carrie onto his lap. He wanted to forced her little black skirt up over her hips, and push her underwear to one side. He wanted very much to enter her, to move inside of her in the dark of the lifeless street corner, kissing the tender flesh of her neck as she let him grab at her hips. Her scream would bring him such pleasure.

Screams always did.

She snaked a hand up to her neck, rubbing her skin slowly. Her other hand pushed softly at her belly, her fingers splayed as though she wished to touch lower.

Erik stopped playing. Carrie didn't open her eyes.

"I should like to take you home, my dear."

Carrie wanted to say no, but she could only nod in consent.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: All my loff to Wee Boat (Gondolier) for being a fantastic beta and an all around fantastic creature._

_His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; _

_And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, _

_And music in his ears his beating heart did make._

_The Lotos-Eaters, _Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Erik led Carrie by the hand away from the Napoleon House through the darkened Pirate's Alley, watching her step and often reaching an arm around her to steady her as she tripped on the uneven flagstones. Her backpack dangled from her hand, often dragging on the ground as they wound through the Quarter.

Her gaze was focused solely on him, yet he knew that she could hardly comprehend the words he spoke in her ear every few steps.

More so, he counted on that.

In the alley, the air was still; he paused to press her softly against the iron fence surrounding the Cathedral. Bending his lips to her ear, he murmured melodically, "Relax yourself into my capable hands." Erik brushed his dry lips over the soft down behind her ear and Carrie sighed, her eyelids fluttering.

"Trust me."

He lowered his mouth to her neck and tasted the flesh tentatively. _Smoke and a tangy perfume. _She lifted her hand to his chest, and Erik pulled back. Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him.

"The music…" she whispered, her eyes suddenly downcast. "I've heard it before."

"Impossible," he said darkly. Looking past her, Erik saw the bright floodlights on the white statue of Christ. He reached behind her and cupped her bottom, pulling her closer. She leaned into him and looked into his eyes.

"Not the melody. The underneath," she whispered. "The underneath."

He bristled, then hummed a wordless tune softly in her ear that wrapped around her mind, bade her close her eyes again and push her pelvis into his. Erik pulled her towards him and hurried them closer to Bourbon. Her breath made wisps of smoke in the frosty air, but Carrie couldn't feel the cold any longer.

Spying a street-front bar, he left her to lean on the wall next to him and ordered a tall beer. Carrie stared out at the crowd until he returned to her and lifted the cup to her mouth.

"Drink this," he said, and she obeyed. Several sips later, he finished the rest and threw the cup away. Carrie stumbled slightly and he reached out again for her. They walked along the length of Bourbon to Esplanade, where Erik knew to cross. Her dilapidated home was just off the main thoroughfare.

Just past Esplanade Avenue lay the Faubourg Marigny, a pocket of reality in the midst of a fantasy. It was a community of locals—true residents of the Crescent, who staked out a claim of ownership and custom and fought to keep the integrity of the culture very much in tact. Carrie's modest home was nestled in this savage garden, away from the bombastic Vieux Carré; an effort to capture something at once lost but hardly forgotten.

Erik walked her up to the front door, and quietly took her backpack from her hand. He pilfered through the front pocket, found the keys, and tried them three times until he successfully opened the door. Carrie watched all of this without a word, and let him lead her inside. She hadn't even reached for the lamp when Erik pulled her close.

"_Darkness is to space what silence is to sound_," he said as he touched his lips to hers. She opened her mouth and felt the warm caress of his tongue on hers. Her arms were still at her side when Erik put his hand on her throat, feeling the pulse of blood through her veins. Carrie's head tipped back gently under the weight of his palm, and he dropped his face down to kiss her neck.

He hadn't kissed a woman in this way since his fatal encounter with Christine. And even then, she had denied him this delicious access to her flesh. She had pushed him away, rejected his most perfect face, all for a delusion of grandeur and goodness.

Carrie sucked in a breath as one of his hands cupped her small breast, a thumb rubbing over the front of her chest.

This girl was willing, wanting and ready for him: a gift, for his bravery and challenge to start anew, to throw away old romantic notions, to grasp life with his arms bare and ready to assault. He had earned the soft whimpers he was creating through this body.

"_Why should the Devil have all the good tunes?_" she whispered.

Erik pulled away from her fiercely and regarded her with unfettered agitation. She lowered her head to her chest, trembling. "In the Cathedral, they will cry out and fling themselves to the ground, begging for mercy but desiring only more."

The fact that she was speaking clearly, when she should have been well within his thrall was enough to unnerved him mightily. But this…what she said to him…this was wrong.

"Carrie?"

She did not move. Erik expelled a shuddery breath and stepped in front of the girl. Her small frame betrayed no acknowledgement of his nearness, or even his presence. He touched a finger to her cheek, and she lifted her head.

"My heart hurts," she murmured. He lifted her up easily and wandered around for a few moments in search of her bedroom. Pushing open a cracked door, Erik beheld a small twin bed and laid Carrie down. Her hands floated to her abdomen, and he knelt beside the bed. Running his fingertips along her leg up to her thigh, she parted her legs and turned her head away from him.

"I can hear it, even now, and the sound makes my ears bleed," she said.

His hand stilled. She did not move. Erik sat back on his heels and watched her chest move up and down with her rapid breath. He reached down and pulled her chunky heeled shoes off, then reached up and pulled the elastic band out of her hair.

Erik backed away from the bed soundlessly, watching as she lifted an arm up over her head and relaxed into a seemingly peaceful slumber.

Closing her door, Erik set about exploring her home. Every part was his for the taking, and since his physical need was only peaked and not satiated, he glutted himself on her the only way he could. Opening her refrigerator, rifling through her mail, touching everything that smelled and felt of her, Erik made his own sensory exploration of Carrie's private life. His uncanny eyesight afforded him a view uncompromised by harsh light.

He found himself in her living room again, staring at a large painting over the mantle. It was a large white home with Gothic columns, painted fairly realistically with only a touch of abstraction. On the other side of the room hung a more modern work, full of jagged lines and dark colors. _Her work_, he surmised. She wasn't very bad at all. Still full of undisciplined youthful carelessness, but her intentions were evident, and he appreciated her style.

Her bookshelf was enormous; Erik was immediately intrigued. Running a finger down the spines, he cocked his head to the side and read the titles. _New Orleans: A Concise History...Yellow Fever in the New World…The Serpent and the Song: Voodoo in America…_

He paused when he came to a book with a web of cracks in the spine. Pulling it from the shelf, he studied the title: _Gumbo Ya-Ya: Folktales of Louisiana._ Flipping through the tome, he scanned the stories: "Street Criers," "The Creoles," "The Cajuns," "Riverfront Lore." Erik thumbed back to the table of contents and glanced over the page. One title stood out to him. Turning to page 75, he sat down on Carrie's couch to read "The Axeman's Jazz."

A little after dawn, Erik heard the creak of a door opening and barefoot feet padding down the hardwood floor. He turned to see a disheveled Carrie in the hallway, rubbing her eyes and then looking at him in shock.

"You're still here?" she asked, her voice cracking.

Erik smiled gently. "I didn't want to leave you alone in case you became ill."

"I… I don't remember what happened. I just," she interrupted herself and crossed her arms around her chest, rolling her dry tongue in her mouth. "We went to Nap House, it was closed, then we… went back to Bourbon Street?"

"That we did. You wanted a 'liquid dinner,' I believe you called it."

Carrie nodded, walking closer to him. "Yeah. I don't…" she paused and stammered. "How many drinks did I have?"

"Two," answered Erik calmly. "But I fear you may have had something slipped into the second drink."

Carrie's eyes widened, and she flushed red. "I don't remember anything really after that. Bits and pieces, I guess." Her eyes welled with tears. "I'm so… I'm so sorry."

Erik sat the book down and crossed over to her. "Please, don't apologize. It most certainly wasn't your fault. I was more than happy to escort you home and care for you, though you made it through the night with no more than a whispering sigh. I will confess," he said tenderly, " I did check on you throughout the night— to make sure you were sleeping on your side, in the event you would have gotten sick. I would never have forgiven myself if you had asphyxiated."

Carrie put a hand to her mouth, and the tears started to course down her cheeks. "Oh, God, thank you. I've never acted so stupidly. Really, I'm usually much more cautious."

"You are being too hard on yourself."

Wiping her face with the back of her hand, Carrie sniffled. "Thank you. Thank you very much." She looked over to couch and saw her book turned over. "Did you not sleep?"

Erik glanced back. "Oh, no. I wanted to be awake in case you needed me. And I was most enthralled by your collection. That one in particular."

Carrie smiled. "It's an old one, but I still love it. I'm glad you found something to entertain you since I—"

"Carrie," Erik interrupted, "no more of that. Can I fetch you some coffee?"

An hour later, Erik and Carrie sat on her screened-in back porch, sipping coffee and chicory and discussing the goings on at Jean Lafitte's. The leaves of the banana trees that lined her small backyard rustled as the breeze picked up.

"Well, I've worked there for, what, one year now?" Carrie said, laughing. "I'm a veteran!"

Erik chuckled. "Yes, of course. You've seen the people come and go, the ebb and flow of humanity," he teased.

"I have!" Carrie insisted. "It's not a bad gig at all. I have time during the day to paint. I've thought about going back to school. And I get to indulge my overbearing nostalgia."

Erik nodded. "It is a beautiful building." He set his cup down and looked at her thoughtfully. "Any more about Vincent leaving?"

Carrie shook her head. "That woman hasn't been back, not to my knowledge at least. Why? Have you heard something? Like, in musician's circles or whatever?"

"No, nothing. Though," he reached into his pocket and produced Melissa Touchet's business card, "the 'brazen harlot' did give me this."

Taking the firm cardstock from his hand, Carrie devoured the name. "She wants you to come work for her?"

Erik shrugged and sipped his coffee again. "I suppose so. I haven't called her back." He relished the way Carrie's eyes narrowed. He imagined that he could hear the gears cranking in her beleaguered little brain.

"You should call her. You could still play on the street if you like it, but this," she tapped the card on the table, "this is real."

He pretended to consider her argument. "May I use your phone then?"

Four hours later, Erik stood on his favorite corner, violin comfortably tucked under his chin, Carrie's copy of _Gumbo Ya-Ya_ in his violin case for the time being.

She was useful, no doubt about that. She tasted good too. Erik played a brisk polonaise and considered her cryptic words of the night before. He glanced down at the book in his case.

_This is a city of legends_, he mused, _and I shall turn their legends against them ten fold._

_A/N: Erik maliciously quotes Marshall McLuhan, Canadian communications theorist, and Harley Parker, when he speaks of darkness and silence. When she references the devil's music, Carrie dares to speak the works of English evangelist Rowland Hill._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I'm sorry for the long time between updates. With the recent devastation to my beloved New Orleans and the entire Gulf Coast, I was hardly in the mood to write about Erik Destler wrecking some crazy in the Vieux Carré. That said, I've found a spot of joy in thinking and writing about the city again. Thank you for reading._

A large debt of gratitude is owed to Gondolier, who betas brilliantly and who is able to suss out plot like a pro.

_And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. _

_The Lotos-Eaters, _Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The gentle slush of the water hitting the rocks on the levee as the Riverboat _Natchez_ paddled north on the river was a pleasing juxtaposition to Erik's fevered reading. He sat with his knees up, pouring through one of the three texts he'd "liberated" from Marie Laveaux's House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street. The store itself was a bit hokey, though he could distinguish a few legitimate artifacts and spell tomes; the section of books was fairly nice, and he helped himself to copies of _Gumbo Ya Ya_,_ Haunted New Orleans_, and _Cities of the Dead: A History of Death and Burial in New Orleans_.

He sipped a café au lait as he turned the page, ignoring the skateboarders who insisted on trying to man the railings to their ultimate failure and bloodied bodies.

_But it was in May, 1918, when the greatest reign of terror New Orleans had even known began…_ he read as he trailed his finger along the page. _For the next year and a half, Orleanians were to awaken nights at the slightest noise and strain their ears for any sound... _

Erik closed the thick yellow book and smiled.

He'd reread this particular story a dozen times by now, familiarizing himself with the mystery and the murders allegedly perpetrated by the legendary Axeman. The attacks, the victims… they were clever enough.

But the clincher for Erik was the Axeman's apparent love of good jazz music, and his fondness for threatening and cryptic notes. The specter had written into the Times-Picayune on March 13th, ('from Hell', Erik noted smugly) and demanded a price for the cessation of his murderous spree.

This creature, who dubbed himself both a friend of the Angel of Death and the "worst spirit that ever existed either in face or realm of fancy," happened to dearly love jazz music.

The "fell demon from the hottest hell" charmingly requested that every house in New Orleans have jazz music playing just for him on the following Tuesday, which happened to be St. Joseph's Night. And most agreeably, every house complied.

Erik laughed out loud as he read of the city's willing and almost energetic desire to please the demonic serial killer. Why, the Axeman had even received invitations to the fetes thrown in his honor!

Closing the book, Erik set it aside, leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the grey winter sky. The days were dreary, frequently rainy and rather cold; the flow of tourists had picked up in anticipation of Mardi Gras next week. He'd managed to keep himself away from the few downtown parades, choosing to hide out in the condominium near the bar. A few carefully choreographed whispers, slammed doors and "suspicious red splatters" had succeeded in convincing the realtor that the place was haunted, and Erik hoped to frighten away buyers for just a bit longer until he was financially ready to make his move. Hiding in the very small attic space, he overheard the realtor's frantic phone calls to the owners, and from that he noted "Perrin" as the family's name.

The overall preparation was taking longer than he'd hoped. He'd begun pilfering mail from several of Carrie's neighbors: a credit card statement here, correspondence from the bank, even a few returned checks. He was ready to begin creating a new identity, and wanted to feel a sense of permanence. Carrie was generous with him, letting him come over to use her shower, throw his clothes in with her laundry and cook a hot meal. He took her up on every offer; he spent most of their time together trying to gently pry information out of her, in order to make sense of her nonsensical mutterings that night he'd meant to enjoy her. He also took the opportunity to relieve Carrie of a few hardware items that he doubted she'd miss.

But it was time for Erik to have a home. This shiftless lifestyle would not support his desires. It most certainly impeded his musical aspirations. He was able to play his violin, and that was pleasing, but he did not have a place to think and compose. He had no safe place to pile his scores as he feverishly wrote, to hoard up books for reference and inspiration, or to at last house a decent piano.

Even as he made his way back to Bourbon to make a few bucks, even as he contemplated his next kill, he hungered most for a space of his own.

After several hours and a fruitful take, Erik found a pay phone in a blessedly quiet bar on Chartres and 30 cents in his pocket. He fished out the business card and dialed.

"This is Melissa, leave a message…"

Erik fumbled for a second before he found his voice. "Miss Touchet, this is Erik—"

He hesitated to give a last name, as he wasn't sure what he would actually pick when the time came.

"—the violinist you heard play. We are to meet tonight, for an audition, but I'm afraid I won't be able to make it."

His face was in a deplorable state. Erik needed to retrieve new "materials" immediately, and cursed himself for waiting too long. For the first time since New York, he thought about Christine.

His feelings had dulled considerably, but being forced to harvest skin so regularly made him long for his previous existence. That had been luxury, he mused, with his furnished loft and his prosthetic faces. And, for a moment, he indulged in the memory of being near Christine, and how that had exhilarated him in a way that he hadn't felt since.

"Ah, I should like to reschedule, perhaps after the holiday when the city has… calmed down? I have no current number to leave for you, but I shall find you."

Erik hung up and trudged off to a packed Jean Lafitte's.

OOOOO

"Hey," said Carrie breathlessly. She carried three drinks and looked wobbly. Erik stepped out of the way, but found he could barely move. As the sun set, the crowds thickened, and he kept adjusting his scarf nervously.

In the time it took to walk from Chartres to the bar, Erik had pick-pocketed three wallets and a cell phone. He hesitated to lift anything from the patrons here, lest he rouse suspicion and disturb this one sanctuary.

Carrie found him pressed uncomfortably in a corner. "Mardi Gras, you know…" she said, looking around. "There's a small parade tonight, then a bigger one tomorrow. Friday night we're all going to Orpheus, if you want to come. Probably go see it from St. Charles. The French Quarter gets kind of stupid and rather naked."

"Mmmm," was all Erik could offer.

"Feeling bad again?" Carrie asked.

"A bit. Perhaps I will join you on Friday. Tonight I think I will take my leave and find a place to hide out from this madness."

"I don't blame you. If the tips weren't pretty good tonight, I'd try to bail myself."

Erik shuffled out as Carrie returned to her tables.

Falling out into the crowd, he jostled his way down Bourbon toward the Faubourg Marigny. He felt inside his deep pocket, and smiled softly. The din of music and screaming bled over onto Esplanade, whose few bars were modestly crowded with more revelers.

Erik took out a small piece of paper: a cable bill stolen from one of Carrie's neighbors. The Gennusa family lived just around the corner from her. His shadowed figure caused no stir on the quiet street; Erik paused to check the time. By 2:00 a.m., after having watched Mr. Gennusa dump trash in the back yard and his wife set the coffee pot for the morning, Erik was ready to move.

He set his violin case down in the darkness and crept towards the French doors. He balled his fist and started to bring it down on the glass, but something made him stop. _No evidence… _he considered. _Could I be so lucky as for the door to be unlocked?_

Luck, he realized, would have nothing to do with it. The damned have perverse luck, a counterbalance for the haunting absence of a soul.

He tested the doorknob, then opened the door slowly. He moved about the room, and was about to enter the bedroom just as he heard a female voice cry out: "Honey, do you hear something?"

The husband was on his feet: Erik could hear movement. He stilled himself in the dark hallway and palmed the rusty axe, a forgotten item from Carrie's shed.

"Babe, it was probably the cat," the husband said, and Erik stepped behind him to bring the axe down on the back of his head. Landing on the floor with a thud and moan, Erik brought the axe back up and then down in one arc, nearly decapitating him.

He walked slowly to the bedroom, where the wife tried to hide herself in the bedclothes, sobbing.

"I cannot be merciful. Not yet."

Erik took his time in their bathroom, making use of Mrs. Gennusa's sewing kit and first aid items. The flesh was raw, but it would heal. His work was finished quickly, and he set out to collect his things.

_No need to position the bodies_, he thought. _But there is one thing I simply must do._

He locked the French doors behind him, then turned and kicked a hole in the bottom panel.

_Just right for the ghost's entry._


	8. Chapter 8

_"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,_

_"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."_

_The Lotos-Eaters_, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Detective Michael Bormeo watched the medical examiner turn the body over, his stomach turning slightly as he thought of the raw flesh making contact with the plastic laid out to preserve evidence. "Mike," the woman began, "look what we've got here. I'm not a betting gal, but I think I've got your cause of death."

Mike stepped forward and peered over Ginnean Ferra's shoulder.

"Is that blunt trauma?"

Ginnean looked up at him skeptically. "See the neatness? This is sharp. This looks like a hatchet. It's…" she pulled out a ruler, "three inches, almost four. That's a significant blade. And the compression around it… this was a powerful blow. It damn near caved his head in."

"So he was well dead before…" Mike made an awkward gesture.

"Yes."

"What about the wife?"

"She took the blow facing the attacker. And she's lacking this kind of overkill."

"What _is_ this kind of overkill?"

"Ritual flaying? The skin was excised, very neatly. This wasn't a hack and slash job—or at least, after the perpetrator cleaved their heads in—the work here was done with a very good blade. See—" She rolled the body back over. "We're down to muscles and fascia, but there's not a nick to the underlying material. This one knows what he's doing."

"Jack the Ripper-ish." Mike immediately felt childish and stupid.

"Something like that." Ginnean stood and stretched her back. "I'm going to get them back to the lab to run the gauntlet."

Mike nodded and went back to surveying the room. He'd been at home, curled up around Jenny when the call came in. Mrs. Gennusa's niece had come to pick her up for their Jazzercise class that morning and found them. The news crews beat Mike to the scene, and he had to push past gumdrop journalists reporting on the "brutal killings" before he'd even seen the bodies. Now he'd gathered precious little in the way of details.

Well, this beats a vanilla tourist mugging or drunken brawl any day he reasoned, and noted the list of the house's contents. Nothing taken. Nothing moved. Nothing out of place except for the killings. Blood spatter was consistent with the cause of death and the subsequent skinning. No fingerprints. No sign of forced entry. Mike walked past a one of the cops at the backdoor and went out into the backyard.

Nothing at all except for that weird hole in the French doors. Mike made a note to ask the niece if she happened to know if that was old. He directed the crime scene photographer to snap a few of it.

_Nothing but a hole, and a whole lot of nothing. _

OOOOO

Melissa looked up as Erik entered the darkened Coven Club. "Can I help you?"

"Miss Touchet." He gave a mock bow.

"Who are you?"

"Erik." She gave no indication of recognition. "The violinist?"

She crossed her arms and looked perturbed. "I thought you wanted to wait until after Mardi Gras to audition."

"It was foolish of me to delay our meeting. I trust you can accommodate an audition now?" Erik said with a mocking lilt to his voice.

"A lot of people want a job here. There are a lot of musicians in this city."

"To be sure. But I suspect," he said, setting his violin case on the table and opening it with a creak, "I might be able to offer you something unique."

"Do you have a resume?"

"I prefer to let the music speak for itself. What does it really matter, where I've played?"

Melissa gestured to the small stage, where a small piano was illuminated with a single spotlight. "Please excuse the workers," she said. "We open tonight, you realize?"

"Hoping to appeal to the swell of tourists?"

"Of course. Now, if you please." Melissa sat back down in plush booth and crossed her arms again.

Erik stepped onto the stage and felt a pointed sensation rush down his spine. He looked out, noted the red paint on the walls, the dark velvet décor, the brand new bottles of liquor behind the varnished bar. Closing his eyes, he could see a smoky tavern in Paris. Or was it London? He'd been in a similar one in Germany, then in Portugal. How could he possibly distinguish between them? They were all moments when the music meant everything, when he could lose himself and forget his own name. To be consumed by the work, to let it infect everyone around him so that he could be _seen_, not as himself, but as the bringer of such great beauty—such great and terrible beauty as to upend Heaven and send an angel careening down to touch his nearly impenetrable heart.

Nestling the violin under his chin, he began to drag the bow across the strings. He might have moved, he might have stood still. He could not hear the workers, he took no notice of Melissa— he simply played. Something he composed so very long ago, long before he bargained for immortality. _For Sylvie. _He nearly faltered as the memory came back to him. Yes, he wrote this for Sylvie.

Lowering the bow and the instrument, Erik looked out to Melissa. She started to speak, then simply nodded and cleared her throat. "The piano, can you…eh… play it?"

"Anything in particular?"

"Something upbeat?"

Erik grimaced. "If I must…" He sat down and plunked out a blithering little jazz ditty, letting his mind wander back to the night before. Holding a life in his hands was much like playing his sacred music, the life itself much like this silly music he was playing right now. He had the power to transform those meaningless people into something greater than their dull, whitewashed selves. Oh his face, Mr. Gennusa's skin became a thing of beauty, sampling immortality before it withered away. And now, his killing had even more purpose—he'd never considered the freeing nature of a murderous rhyme scheme. Always before, he killed out of necessity: For his hides, for Christine, to protect himself and to protect her. But this, in this place—his music and his vicious nature could marry with thrilling consequence. Why had it taken him so very long to connect the two?

Too long he'd rebelled against his new nature. In his lust for his music, he'd never fully given himself over to his Master.

But in this city, he would make amends.

Melissa was smiling and applauding as he cleared his mind of these pleasant thoughts. "Perfect," she cheered. Even a few of the workers stopped to clap with her.

"How is that you aren't playing in New York? Or touring across Europe?"

Erik smirked. "Who's to say that I haven't?"

Melissa walked towards the stage. "What's brought you here? I mean, forgive me if this is presumptuous, but… it seems… that you've fallen on hard times."

"That's a lovely way to put it."

She crimsoned. "I'm sorry, I just—is it alcohol? Drugs? I need you to be forthcoming about this."

"Nothing of the kind," he said, rising from the piano bench and stepping off the stage. He towered over her, shadowing her. "I take my music very seriously, shall we say. I have been restless in my life, and I have spent a lifetime—several, perhaps—searching for a sanctuary where I could devote myself to my passion." Melissa rocked back slightly as he spoke. "I felt compelled to give up everything and come to this place."

He caught her gaze and held it as he would hold a struggling victim in his arms.

"I hope I have not erred in my judgment."

"You haven't," she whispered. "I want you here. You belong here."

Erik caught her hand and kissed it. "I believe I do."

OOOOO

"Anything else I can do for you today?"

Erik smiled and folded the crisp bills into his wallet. Melissa had been easily persuaded that he needed a little money in advance, and so he had her make the check out to "Erik Delacroix." The poor little teller had taken the driver's license he proffered (one of his pick-pocketing treasures) and shyly made eye contact with him. "Erik is my middle name, the one I use in pleasant company," he had said amiably, though his eyes had been hard and cold. She'd quickly typed in the account number he'd provided and cashed the check.

"Nothing at all. You've been terribly helpful." He gathered his things and made his way out. Retrieving his cell phone, Erik dialed the Perrin's realtor.

"Nancy Feldman? I believe you handle the Perrin's condominium? Yes, that one. Yes, I've heard about the rumors. No, I'm not a reporter. I'd like very much to make them an offer. I believe I can frighten their ghosts away."


End file.
